Cynthia looked up and down the broad sea front, with its thousands of lamps and droves of promenaders.
“At last I am beginning to size up this dear little island,” she said. “I may go with you to a racetrack, I may sit by your side for days in an automobile, I may even eat your luncheon and drink your aunt’s St. Galmier, but I may not ask you to accompany me a hundred yards from my hotel to a pier. Very well, I’ll quit. But before I go, do tell me one thing. Did you really mean to bring your aunt to Epsom to-day?”
“Yes.”
“A mother’s sister sort of aunt—a nice old lady with white hair?”
“One would almost fancy you had met her, Miss Vanrenen.”
“Perhaps I may, some day. Father and I are going to Scotland for a month from the twelfth of August. After that we shall be in the Savoy Hotel about six weeks. Bring her to see me.”
Medenham almost jumped when he heard of the projected visit to the Highlands, but some demon of mischief urged him to say:
“Let’s reckon up. July, August, September—three months——”
He stopped with a jerk. Cynthia, already aware of some vague power she possessed of stirring this man’s emotions, did not fail to detect his air of restraint.